The Gray
Dammit all to hell, I groan with a clenched jaw stepping out of the red
line subway station on Harrison and State street. The sinister gray
clouds greet me with a deep rumble of thunder that threatens to tear
the sky half, vibrating the tall dark city high-rises of downtown
Chicago softly. Shut the hell up, I growl, rounding the corner of State
Street. It's wet, it's gloomy, and here I am on my way to class dressed
in nothing but a shell of a white winter coat with no long johns, no
gloves, and no hat. I'm soaked, not to mention the bone chilling winter
air rips thought me like a window curtain, adding insult to injury.
Leave it to your damn mother to be your weather center. A few drenched
cars pass me up on the soggy street beside me, splashing muddy water
into the many cracks of the tanned pavement. A red trunk honks its
horn, baring its titanium fangs as the driver impatiently waits for me
to pass across the exit of a raggedy parking lot. I glare at it before
continuing. The green line howls madly into the afternoon sky as I high
pass under its cackling shriek; vomiting buckets of murky water onto
the hood of my coat. Is this God's way of punishing me for my foolish
sins? Or is he just pissing on me for the hell of it? I zigzag in
between the crowded sidewalk littered with other students heading to
and from school, passing up begging alley bums and businessmen, finally
reaching the large busy intersection of Wabash and State. The coal
tinted traffic signals posted a few feet above me flash simultaneously
with various colors of instructions, to both people and drivers, yet
some of them just don't give a shit and ignore them; crossing the
street when cars are flying forty-to fifty miles down the
wide-stretched road, running the red light while people cross the damn
street. And they wanna get mad when half they ass is torn off. The
stoplight facing me turns green, flashing white: Walk.
“Hey bruh! Yo!” a deep scraggy voice calls out over the crowd.
“HEY! My man in the white coat.” My heart plunges into my stomach as I
turn around, scanning the crowd.
“Yeah, you.” My eyes focus a dark, bearded man dressed in a navy blue
hoodie approaching me, pushing a dirty bald wrinkled man in a
wheelchair. The smell of liquor assaults my nose as he grins, revealing
a row of gleaming silver teeth. The old bald man grunted, wrapped in a
ragged black blanket, covered with grimy stains. My first reaction was
to just yell hell no and walk off, but I didn't. Something told me to
listen to what he had to say, then refuse and head to class. I raised
an eyebrow pointing to myself. “Me?”
“Yeah, Yeah, you. Say my man, you gotta phone on you that I could use
right quick? Gotta call my pops n' nem so they could pick up this ol'
fool right here. I Work fo' the city so you know, just tryin to earn a
paycheck. Think you can help a brotha out?” He asks, shoving his hands
into his pockets. I shake my head solemnly and shrug. “Sorry. I can't
help you.”
“Oh, 'aight then. Thanks anyways, though.” I nod, turning to began
crossing the street, before I suddenly hear the man's loud voice
bellow, “Get that muthafucker!” I spun around to see the old man jump
up from his chair, clutching a pair of golden brass knuckles. In an
instant, with no time to react, I was socked in the forehead, and all
went black.
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